The Last Quest
by Darkover
Summary: Denethor still has things he must do, and much to learn. *Sixth and Final Chapter is up!*
1. Chapter 1

5

Title: "The Last Quest"

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer:  I do not own any of the characters of the "Lord of the Rings" saga, which was written by J.R.R. Tolkien, nor am I making any money from this. I believe the good professor would understand, though, that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so he would not want anyone to sue me.

Characters: Denethor and Boromir

Summary: Denethor still has things he must do, and much to learn. Please read and review.

There was tremendous pain, then…nothing.

No pain. No sensation of any kind. No sight, no smell, no sound. And then…

Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, blinked, but it wan an instinctive action. The daylight was bright, but it did not hurt his eyes. The scenery was beautiful: the grass, trees, clear blue sky, the distant waterfall which emptied into a distant but beautiful river. The sight was more breathtaking than anything he could recall seeing in Gondor, and he was just wondering if somehow, he had been transported to the fabled lands of the Elves, when a sight more beautiful than anything in nature greeted him.

"Boromir!" he gasped.

"Greetings, Father." The young man of that name, more handsome and princely-looking than ever, was walking toward him, smiling.

"Boromir, my Boromir…" Denethor sobbed, and held out his arms to his elder son. The younger man strode forward, to be instantly enveloped in his father's arms. If the hug he was given seemed more dutiful than loving, Denethor was too overwhelmed with joy to take heed.

"You have returned," Denethor gasped, still overwhelmed by emotion. "I knew you would come back, when Gondor needed you most. When *I* needed you most. I knew my most faithful, most loving and beloved son, would never fail me." His expression twisted. "Not like my younger son."

The tall young man in his arms drew back slightly. "Father, you are wrong about Faramir. You must accept that, if we are to go on."

The Steward ignored this. "I should not have believed your brother when he told me you were dead."

"I am dead, Father, and so are you," Boromir said, very gently. "Do you not remember?"

"Remember?" Denethor frowned. He could not think. There was something, something to do with Faramir…

Burning. Someone had tried to burn Faramir. Someone…oh, Eru, NO—

"Your brother! Men tried to burn him alive at my order!" Denethor whirled and tried to go back the way he had come, but could not find the way. "Faramir!" he screamed.

"Father, it is all right—"

"No! I must stop it!" Denethor shouted, struggling as his son tried to restrain him. "I was mad, but now I know—Faramir!"

Boromir was holding him again, the green eyes boring into Denethor's own. "Father, it is all right. Faramir is safe now. Trust me."

The former Steward of Gondor collapsed into his son's arms, weeping. "Oh, Boromir. I was wrong. I was wrong about your brother. I was a fool ever to look into the palantir. I have been wrong, for so long, about so many things."

This time, his elder son hugged him tightly, with much more tender enthusiasm than before. Denethor leaned on him.

After weeping in a way he had not wept since he was a small child, Denethor raised his head from the shoulder of his elder son. To his astonishment, Boromir was smiling, eyes kind.

"We were both wrong about many things, Father, not least of all our pride. The fact that you have begun to understand is the first step on the journey you must make."

"Journey?" Denethor said, openly bewildered. "What do you mean? And—and you said—we were dead, my son."

Boromir smiled gently. "We are, Father—and yet, we have never been so alive. You will understand all in time. I have been sent to make the journey with you. Mother is waiting for us, and your father, too. He wishes to ask your forgiveness for first setting you on the wrong path, by favoring Thorongil over you when you were a youth."

Denethor's thoughts still whirled, so his mind settled on the remark that was of most concern to him. "Your mother is here? I wish to see her!"

"In time, Father, in time," Boromir soothed. "She is beyond yonder river, and you—you cannot cross it just yet. You will in time, after we have finished our quest."

"What quest is that, my son?"

"It will be a daunting one," Boromir warned. "There are many things you have yet to learn, and must repent of, before you enter the Kingdom and the Light of Illuvatar. But I as I said, I have been sent to guide you along the way." Boromir grinned suddenly and thumped his father on the back. "Let it not be said that Men of Gondor ever shirked a quest, Father!"

Denethor laughed with a delight he had not known, much less shown, for years. "True! Let us go on together, my son!" And together they walked on, towards the far-distant river. Behind them, a white mist descended, separating them from Middle-Earth, sealing their departure from the world of Men.


	2. Chapter 2

5

Title: "The Last Quest," Chapter Two

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Ecthelion

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

Author's Note: "Thorongil" was the name used by Aragorn when, as a young man, well before the War of the Ring, he served Gondor incognito as the greatest Captain in the service of Ecthelion II, the father of Denethor.

"Father?" Denethor managed.

"Yes, Denethor." His father, Ecthelion, looking more hale and hearty than he had for many a day, smiled warmly at his son, and held out his arms for an embrace. Denethor moved forward hesitantly, apprehensive about being rejected, and hugged the other man gingerly. His father was being far more welcoming than Denethor could ever recall the older man having been in life.

"It gladdens my heart to see you," Ecthelion said. He drew back, looking into Denethor's face. "Long have I awaited you, my son."

Denethor glanced back at his own son in hopes of some explanation or support, but Boromir stood back, his expression showing nothing, as if to say this was between the other two men.

"I confess surprise, Father," Denethor said. "I had not ever thought you anxious for my company."

"Why say you that?" the older man asked, in seeming surprise. "You are my son. Why should I not wish to see you, and after so long a separation?"

"You always seemed to prefer the company of others to that of mine, Father." Denethor hated to show such emotion, deeming it a weakness, but these thoughts and feelings had long festered within him. "Never did you seem to see me, or wish for my presence."

"Not so," the older man protested.

"It is so!" Denethor burst out. "I was your only son, but you favored every man over me. Especially—" He stopped, hating the way he sounded, hating the way this conversation was going.

His father smiled sadly, as if he understood. "Especially Thorongil?" he asked softly. "Yes, my son. I knew of your jealousy of this man." He held up a hand as Denethor started to speak. "I do not say you had no reason to be envious. He was a good man, stalwart and puissant—"

"Even now, you prefer him over me," Denethor said bitterly.

"Nay, son, nay," his father protested. "That is not what I meant!" He sighed and shook his head at Denethor's sullen expression. "Oft do I wish I had the tongue of a bard, that I might better express my meaning. Thorongil was a fine man, and of course I favored him in placement. He was a worthy soldier and captain to Gondor. At a time when Sauron, orcs, and rebels all besieged our borders, there was none braver, or more skilled. But when he was a man, you were still a boy, my son. One does not expect a boy to be as resolute and brave as a Captain of Men. Necessity required that I spend much time with my Captains, and I favored those who did great service."

"I would have done you great service, Father," Denethor choked out, feeling ludicrously close to tears. "I will hear no more." He started to turn away, but suddenly Boromir was there, a hand on his shoulder, steadying him.

"I know this is difficult, Father," the young man said, not unkindly, but firmly. "But for both your sakes, please listen."

Ecthelion was beside him again, touching his arm tentatively, as if now he were afraid of rejection. "Forgive my clumsy words, my son," he said haltingly. "Ever was I rude and harsh in expressing myself. Words were best left to poets and to women, or so I thought when in Middle Earth I lived. I mean to say only, that if I did seem to favor Thorongil over you, it was because one does not expect a boy to be a man—"

"And yet, because I was still a boy, I needed your love all the more," Denethor said, anger and bitterness that he had thought long locked away spilling out. "I care not for your excuses! I will listen no longer!"

"Denethor!" Ecthelion cried, but Denethor was running, far away from his father and the latter's voice. He ran for what seemed like a long time, heading for the river, his father's desperate cries repeated over and over again behind him. Finally, when Denethor could no longer hear the older man's voice, he stopped.

"Are you ready, Father?" a familiar, beloved voice said quietly.

Denethor turned quickly. "Boromir!" His elder son was standing nearby, as if he had been there all the time. "How—?" His son just stood there patiently. The former Steward of Gondor tried again. "How close are we to yonder river?"

"Not very close, Father; and less close now than previously," Boromir said.

"What do you mean? I have been running towards it!"

Boromir shook his head. "You shall never finish the quest that way, Father. By your actions, you have but lengthened your journey. Distance here is traversed not by a man's stride, but by his heart."

"I do not understand," Denethor said, openly bewildered.

"I know," Boromir said. His gaze was thoughtful and rather sad, but not condemning. Denethor was suddenly reminded of Faramir, although he could not think why. Before he could pursue the thought, his elder son was grasping his arm and asking; "Are you ready to try again?"

Denethor nodded, and they moved off together.


	3. Chapter 3

16

Title: "The Last Quest," Chapter Three

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: The characters of "The Lord of the Rings" were created not by me, but by J.R.R. Tolkien. I am sure the good professor would understand, however, that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, and so he would not want anyone to sue me.

Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Finduilas, Imrahil

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

"What yet have we to do, my son?" Denethor asked Boromir, as they walked through a glade together.

"Much," the younger man said simply. "I had not thought you would run away, Father." His tone held only a slight reproof, but Denethor still felt stung.

"It was either that, or strike him," he retorted. "And a man must not strike his father, even should his father deserve it."

"True," Boromir said, with a depth of feeling that sounded odd to Denethor. "Men do not always get what they deserve, Father. Sometimes we should be grateful for that."

"I grow weary of riddles," the former Steward snapped. "When may I see your mother?"

Boromir stopped short and looked at the older man with piercing eyes. "I can show you something of her, Father. Are you strong enough to see it?"

The former Steward of Gondor felt insulted. "Yes!"

He had barely given his reply when Boromir was gone, to be replaced by Finduilas. At first Denethor started forward with a cry of joy, only to stop when she turned from him to look at—himself.

It was a younger version of himself, in his full prime of manhood. He was momentarily surprised how much, in his younger days, he had resembled Boromir—or, more accurately, how his firstborn had grown to resemble him. Denethor's hair was shorter and darker than that of his elder son, his expression somewhat less given to merriment, but with the beard that he had evinced in his youth, and in the manner of comporting himself, the resemblance was remarkable. He wondered that he had not seen it before. Now, as his younger self smiled at the sight of the beautiful girl before him, the late Steward felt his spirit lift in remembrance. Even the sight of the woman he loved had once been enough to fill his heart with happiness.

"I leave my sister in your care, Steward," a young man who was hardly more than a boy was saying to this younger version of Denethor. The speaker was Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth; he was garbed in kingly fashion and in this vision was not much older than his sister, which made him much younger than Denethor, who was a man in his prime. The Steward realized that he was witnessing a vision of events that had already occurred; he was seeing the day of his wedding. Prince Imrahil had escorted his only sister, Finduilas, to Minas Tirith, and now that the wedding festivities were over, was preparing to take his leave. Denethor recalled that the father of his bride and her brother had been too ill to travel, even to attend his daughter's wedding. Because his father was unwell, and therefore weakened, and because even in those days fell creatures had oft been a threat, Imrahil deemed it unwise to be away from his home for long. Even so, Ithilien in those days had been an oasis of peace compared to Gondor. Mordor and all its horrors lay directly on Gondor's border to the East, so close that the Black Gates were only a day's journey from Minas Tirith.

"She is no longer your sister alone, but my wife," Denethor asserted, coming forward to take the beautiful young woman's hands in his own. "And I shall indeed guard her, as my most precious possession."

He smiled at his new, very young bride. Finduilas had been so much younger than he. She smiled back, but rather unwillingly, or so it seemed from his perspective now. She even appeared somewhat upset, and looked oddly pale. Surely that was not so, Denethor thought. He remembered the day of his wedding as one of the happiest days of his life, and had always recalled it as being the same for his bride as well.

"Thank you, my dear husband," she said, in a tone so formal that the Denethor who now watched and listened was astonished. "But though I am now your wife, and shall strive to devote myself to you always, and to love your people as my own, I would be no man's possession."

"Then, lady, allow me to be Steward of your heart," Denethor said gallantly, moving to kiss her hand. "As you most surely are the keeper of mine."

Finduilas gave him a more genuine smile this time. But as his younger self bent his head to kiss the hand of his new bride, the Denethor who was observing all this noticed that the pale, beautiful young woman looked not at her new husband, but past him, out a window, gazing wistfully southward, toward the land from whence she came.

There was a shimmering, as of distant heat on a summer's day, and then he saw Finduilas again. She stood at a window in her chamber in Minas Tirith, and Denethor knew it was at least one year after the wedding, for she was wearing the royal blue mantle with silver that he had given her as a gift for their first wedding anniversary.

Denethor's younger self came up behind her, and gently put his hands on her shoulders. "I would you did not do this, my love," he said quietly. "You should not look in the direction of the land in the East. It only distresses you."

"But East is the direction of the rising sun, and I would greet it," she said, and then turned to him and smiled. Both Denethors, the younger one in the vision and the older one now observing it, smiled also. The rising sun was on Finduilas' hair, turning it to spun gold, there were roses in her cheeks, and her smile was one of pure happiness. Never had she looked more beautiful.

"I have news, husband," she said. "I carry your child."

Denethor's face lit up like the sun itself. "You are certain?"

She nodded, and whispered something in his ear. As Denethor's younger face assumed an expression simultaneously as foolishly happy and as self-satisfied as that of any farm lad, the older version chuckled, remembering how she had reminded him of the circumstances under which the child had been conceived. The couple embraced, kissing each other passionately….

The shimmering occurred again.

"The Lord of the City has returned!" one of the household guards announced, as Denethor strode into the outer rooms of his private chambers. The Steward, having just returned from a battle in which he and his men had routed rebel Southrons and goblin-men, looked around for his wife. Finduilas was normally on hand to greet him when he returned, but there was no sign of her now.

"Where is my lady?" he demanded.

"The Lady Finduilas is in her chamber, my lord," one of the servants reported. "She was brought to bed just this morning."

"What?" Denethor turned and ran like a schoolboy for his wife's chamber. He ran past the two guards on duty just outside, and burst through the double doors—

Everyone in the chamber—the healer, the midwife, three servants, two of Finduilas' gentlewomen, and his beloved lady herself—all looked up, startled, as he made his forceful entrance. His wife, looking weary but radiantly happy, smiled up at him, and lifted a small bundle.

"We have a son, my husband."

Denethor, watching from a perspective of many years and a world later, saw how the hands of his younger self trembled as they reached out to take the babe from its mother's arms. He remembered how he had scarcely believed that something so small could be so important—or so wonderful. For the first time, Denethor looked upon someone he would love as much as his wife.

"My son," he said, with immense satisfaction. "An heir for Gondor!"

"Our son, husband," Finduilas corrected gently. "Our newborn babe."

The Steward seemed scarcely to have heard. He carried the child out of the chamber, out onto the balcony, where people waited below. He held the infant up so that the population could see. "An heir for Gondor!"

A cheer so tremendous burst forth that the child began to cry loudly. Denethor smiled broadly, pleased at both the enthusiastic response of the crowd and at the lusty cry of his newborn son.

"Do you hear, my love?" he asked, turning back into the chamber and carrying the child back to its mother. "He is strong, this one."

Finduilas readily took the child from him. "What shall we name this jewel, my husband?"

Denethor smiled even more broadly. "Well spoken, my dear one. For my son is indeed Gondor's chief treasure." He looked down at his wife and newborn child, saw how the bright sunlight illuminated them both. "'Jewel' or 'treasure,' by itself, is not quite fitting for a man and a warrior, though…."

A look of distress crossed the face of his sweet wife. "Denethor, speak not of such things! The child is just born! I wish not to think of war!"

Denethor quickly seated himself alongside Finduilas on the bed, put his arm around her and kissed her. "Forgive me, my love. I did not mean to upset you." He looked down at the infant in her arms. "He is a child of light, as well as our treasure. 'Boromir' is fitting."

Finduilas smiled at him. But, for the first time, her husband did not notice; he was gazing down at the child, completely absorbed in his new son. "Boromir," he repeated. "My son. My heir."

The shimmering occurred again. Denethor, not quite knowing why, braced himself….

"Husband." The surprisingly aggressive tone of his young wife's voice made Denethor look up from the maps over which he was examining. His other men who were with him also glanced up with surprised expressions. The Lady Finduilas did not normally interrupt the Steward when he was discussing strategy with his Captains.

"What is it?" Denethor's tone was mild, and not particularly interested.

"The guards at the gate tell me that they are forbidden to allow me to leave the city, even with men to guard me. When I insisted on speaking with the Captain of the Day, he was apologetic, but told me that this was an order directly from you."

"That is true." Denethor's gaze returned to the map spread out on the table.

"Denethor!"

The Steward's head came up in surprise. Finduilas' tone was impatient, almost angry.

"I wish to leave the city. Today I wish to ride in the countryside, but soon, I shall need to leave in order to visit my father and my brother in Dol Amroth. I wish to take Boromir with me then. The child is six months old, but my father has yet to see his grandson."

The Steward rolled up the map. "That is out of the question."

Finduilas appeared stunned. "How can you say such a thing?"

"You have not recovered from childbirth as well as the healer would like. And I fear for your safety when you are outside these walls."

Finduilas' lips pressed together, and then parted again. "Denethor—"

The Steward glanced at his Captains and ordered them: "Leave us."

They did so. The Steward waited until they had left the council chamber, and then moved away from the table and toward his wife.

"Finduilas," he began, his tone so maddeningly reasonable that it set his normally-sweet wife's temper on edge, "surely you understand that such a lengthy journey is impossible. I would risk neither my lady nor my heir, much less both, on such a long expedition, so far from Gondor. It is much too dangerous—"

"Not if you came along to defend us, husband!" Finduilas' eyes were shining as this idea came to her. "We could all go, spend time together, as we so seldom have an opportunity to do! Please, Denethor—"

She stopped, as he was shaking his head. "Finduilas, you know that is not possible. I could not leave the city for such a long time."

"Could you not, my dearest?" Her small, fine hands were on his chest, her eyes still bright. "Please, my love, for a few days?"

"No." The refusal was too abrupt, too blunt. Her hands fell away, her bright eyes dimmed and her expression fell. The Steward felt a bit ashamed; it was like disappointing a happy child. He took one of his wife's hands in his own, gentling his voice. "Not only do I have responsibilities, my dear one, but my fear for you, and for the child, would be too great. It is much too dangerous; there are wild men and orcs about. You and Boromir must remain here in the city, where I can keep you both safe."

Finduilas was stunned. "You mean you will not allow me to take the babe with me at all? Denethor, I cannot leave him behind! The child is not yet weaned!"

"Of course not. Neither of you will go. As I said, it is too dangerous."

"But it will always be dangerous! Mordor will always be on Gondor's border! If many men went with us, to guard us—"

"That would take men from duties they should perform here. No."

"Perhaps, when the child is older—" she said hopefully.

"Finduilas." Denethor held up a hand, as if to forestall the flow of her words. "Enough." His tone was not harsh, but it was implacable. "That is my decision. You and the child will remain here, in safety."

She stepped back from him, her expression aghast. She was staring at him as if she had never seen him before. "Am I never to be allowed to visit my home again?"

"This is your home now, Finduilas." The Steward's voice held a hint of impatience now. The Denethor of years later, watching this scenario, nodded approvingly.

"You—" Finduilas burst into tears, but when her husband reached for her, she shook off his hands, turned, and fled the room, still sobbing.

The younger version of the Steward hesitated. The older Denethor, still watching this scene, recalled how he had thought to go after her, but decided against it, believing that as his wife was so upset, it would be better to leave her to her own devices for a time. After all, it was not as if he was going to change his mind. He heard his younger self sigh quietly, and then watched as he returned to the table to resume perusing the maps.

There was a shimmering again. The visions faded, and again Denethor stood in the glade, with Boromir before him.

"You never did allow her to return to Dol Amroth, did you, Father?" his elder son asked. "Not even for a visit."

"Of course not," Denethor snapped. "As Steward, I was responsible for her safety. And for yours," he added pointedly, thinking that Boromir should have been grateful, should at least have been inclined to see things from his point of view.

"Perhaps you would have been wiser in that instance, Father, to have been less the Steward and more the husband."

Denethor's anger flared. "As her husband, I was no less responsible for her protection! It was for her own good!"

Boromir's expression was the same as that day when, after retaking Osgiliath from the enemy, father and son had exchanged short, sharp speech about Faramir. The elder son's voice rose a bit. "She never even got to see her own father again before the old man passed on. How was that for Mother's 'good,' Father?"

"Boromir, you were once a soldier and a Captain of Men! You should understand how one must make decisions that are necessary, even when they are painful for others."

Boromir looked away momentarily, taking a deep breath, which seemed odd to Denethor as neither of them needed to breathe any longer. "True," the younger man said at last. "I should not judge you, Father. That is not my place." He moved toward his father, placing a hand on Denethor's shoulder. "But was her safety the true reason you prevented her from leaving the city?"

"What other could there have been?"

His son's green eyes bored into his own with such intensity that Denethor could neither look away, nor speak anything other than the truth. "You did not keep her in Minas Tirith for your sake? Because this gave you power over her?"

"That is madness!" the former Steward sputtered. "Just because I wished her to cease longing for Dol Amroth, and regard Minas Tirith as her home—" he stopped abruptly.

His son released him, straightening. "You see, Father?" he said in a quiet but resolute voice. "You thought you would compel Mother to think and feel as you did. You tried to force her to accept your will. And in so doing, you not only hurt her, but over time, you hastened her to her death."

Fury blazed through Denethor—he shot to his feet. "How dare you! Firstborn or not, you will not speak to your father that way!"

"It gives me no pleasure to say it," Boromir said levelly, but in the same relentless tone.

"Although it was not something you did in the fullness of your will and thought, Father, it was still a mistake you made as the result of your pride. You saw it not for the sin it was, but still you knew it was wrong to do as you did. And so Mother slowly withered away, as a flower set upon barren rock, until eventually she succumbed to the illness that killed her."

"I loved your mother!" Denethor struck his son a blow across the face. Boromir did not move, just remained gazing at him steadily. Denethor was the more shocked of the two, but could not bring himself to apologize.

"You are not my son," he said hoarsely. "You cannot be. Boromir would never speak to his father this way. You are some shade sent by the Enemy to deceive me!"

His son's expression gentled. "Father—"

"No! I will listen no longer! If you will not leave me, I shall leave you, and do not follow me!" Denethor turned his back on Boromir and strode off in the direction of the river.

"Father, wait!" Boromir's voice called after him. "You cannot make it on your own! Father—"

Denethor put his hands over his ears, knowing the gesture was childish, but unable to listen to the beloved voice saying such painful things. It did no good; Boromir stood before him once more. "Father, listen to me."

"No! I refuse! Go back to whence you came, I need you not!" the former Steward shouted, immediately setting off in another direction. He was too angry to notice that no matter how straight a path to the river he set, or how swiftly he walked, the river got no nearer. On the contrary, it seemed to be receding into the distance.

Boromir did not reappear.

Denethor continued walking for some moments. He tried to fix his gaze on the river, but it seemed more distant and elusive than ever. He was not tiring, but he made no progress either. Suddenly, he found he could go no further.

He looked down. His feet were stuck in mud. He tried to pull them out, to no avail; the mud just sucked more strongly at his feet and legs. He pulled for all he was worth, trying to free himself, but the mud just dragged at him even more relentlessly. He realized he was sinking deeper with every passing second, and fought like a madman, only to sink chest-level into the mud. Realizing that he was continuing to sink, he panicked.

"Help!" he screamed. "Someone help me!"


	4. Chapter 4

10

Title: "The Last Quest," Chapter Four

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Ecthelion

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

"Take my hand," a familiar voice said.

Denethor refused to look in the other's direction. "I want not your help."

"Are you certain?" the other man said quietly.

"I mean," Denethor said unwillingly and not entirely honestly, "that should you attempt to pull me out, we would only end up in this mire together."

"Try it and see," Ecthelion said, extending his hand to his son once more.

Grudgingly, Denethor took his father's hand. To his astonishment, the moment he accepted the older man's help, the mire ceased to pull at him, and Ecthelion drew him out as easily as one would pluck a flower. They stood regarding each other. Denethor turned away, not wishing to meet his father's gaze. To his astonishment, the mire was gone, and there was no trace it had ever been there. There was nothing but grass, trees, and flowers.

"How—?"

"You created it yourself," Ecthelion told him, not unkindly. "When you would not listen, when you became too besotted with your own mistaken opinions, when you refused help that had been sent. There are perilous things even in this land, my son, but only if a man brings them with him."

"What help has been sent to me?" Denethor demanded truculently.

"Boromir. But you have chosen to refuse to listen to his words."

"That was not Boromir. It could not be, for my firstborn would never treat me in such fashion," Denethor insisted stubbornly. He started to walk toward the river once more. His father fell into step beside him.

"What of your younger son?" Ecthelion asked. "You believe your elder son would never say or do anything to displease you, but what of Faramir?"

"What of him?" Denethor snapped.

"Do you never give a thought to him? Has he done naught, ever, to please you?"

"He has uses, but they are few," Denethor muttered. "Why do you speak of him, when my firstborn has treated me so ill?" He was aware that he sounded like a sulky child, but for some reason, his father always seemed to bring out the worst in him.

Ecthelion stared at Denethor in amazement. "My son, if there is but one thing you should have learned from my poor example as a father, it is that favoritism is neither meet nor wise."

Denethor felt a twinge of guilt at his father's words. "Well do I recall how it felt, Father, when you preferred Thorongil over me," he admitted. "But what I did with my sons was not the same."

"No?"

"No! Faramir was always…different from his brother. So, I treated him differently. If he is less loyal than Boromir, or less valiant, am I to blame?" Denethor began walking more rapidly. Ecthelion increased his own pace.

"Do you truly believe your own words? How could Faramir be less loyal, when he scrupulously obeyed your orders, even unto almost certain death? How could he be less valiant, when ever did he battle the enemies of Gondor, he showed as much courage as his brother did? Did Faramir not drive a fell beast of the Nazgul away from the Ringbearer, by shooting it with an arrow?"

"I know not of what you speak."

"No? But what I tell you is true."

Denethor turned sharply to his father. "Who are you to tell me anything? You ruled Gondor during a time much more peaceful than any I have ever known. You had great Captains, such as your beloved Thorongil, to aid you. Who did I have, save my sons? And if Boromir was the better Captain, then by your own reasoning, should I not have favored him?"

Denethor ceased to speak because a look of profound sadness crossed his father's face. "You are right, my son. It was I who first set you on such a path, by favoring Thorongil. I gave no thought to the harm I was doing to you. I was wrong, Denethor. On my oath, my dear son, I never meant to hurt you, yet I did, and I should have realized the extent of the pain I caused you. I have no right to ask, but I hope you will forgive me."

Denethor stared at Ecthelion. At those long-overdue words of apology, he felt something loosen in his chest. He also felt as one does after being delivered of a heavy burden that has been carried so long, one is almost reluctant to abandon it.

"I forgive you, Father," he said. He was even surprised to realize it was true. Something about finally hearing those words from his father's lips, devoid at last of excuses, made the pain recede enough so that, by forgiving the older man, it dissipated at last.

Ecthelion's face literally transfigured with joy; it was so bright and beautiful Denethor could scarcely look upon it. "Thank you, my son." The words were heartfelt, and the older man embraced Denethor. This time, the younger man welcomed his father's embrace, and was pleasantly astonished when his father kissed him on the forehead.

"I love you, my only son. I always have. Fare well on your journey. I shall see you again when you have passed yonder river," Ecthelion said…and then, was gone.

Reminded of the river, Denethor looked in its direction. It now appeared to be nearer than before, but it still appeared to be miles away. He straightened his shoulders and resumed his march. Surely he could cover the remaining distance by himself.

But now a wood was between him and the river, a wood that the former Steward of Gondor would have taken oath was not there before. Still, it could not be avoided. If he wished to reach the river, he must pass through it. Denethor had skills as a Ranger, even if in his life in Middle-Earth he had seldom had need to use them. He entered the wood confidently.

The trees seemed to close behind him. Even though the day was bright, the forest was close and dark, rather like the fabled Mirkwood. What path there was through the forest quickly disappeared. Denethor doggedly tried to push through but not only did the wood become dark as night, fog rolled in, blinding him from seeing anything more than a few feet away. After an unknown length of time, Denethor realized he was lost, and also that he had no idea of how to escape. At last, emotionally drained and frustrated, he sat down on a fallen log in one dark clearing, and held his head in his hands.

I am alone, abandoned by all, he thought. He laughed a little, but without real humor. Was that not how it had always been? That is what it means to be Steward. But I am Steward no longer, he thought, and was amazed at this truth. Up until this moment, even though he accepted that he had died and left Middle-Earth behind, he had still been accustomed to thinking of himself and his position as he once had been. It came to him, suddenly, that now he was just a Man like other Men. Perhaps now, accepting aid would not be such a weakness. Except that no one remained to offer aid. But there is one I could always trust to do my will, he thought. I wish Boromir were here….

No sooner had the thought crossed his mind when a voice spoke, a voice he had always loved more than any other man's. "Father."

Denethor lifted his head. "Boromir," he said, his voice low.

His elder son nodded and moved toward him. "I have returned to help you continue your journey, Father, if you will bear my company."

Denethor regarded the approaching figure steadily. "I know not if I can. I know not if I should. If I am trapped in this mirthless wood, I fail to see how I shall be delivered if I follow some shade sent by the Enemy."

The tall young man stopped before him, knelt on one knee before Denethor, placed his hands on the latter's shoulders, and looked directly into the eyes of the former Steward. "Father, do you truly believe I have spoken these words and shown you these visions to torment you? Do you not understand that when a sick man must drink a healing draught, he must drain it to the very dregs, no matter how bitter it may taste, for only that way will he be healed?"

Denethor did not answer. Boromir spoke again. "Father, if I were a servant or a device of the Enemy, would I not deceive you more easily by showing you only what you wished to see? Would I not use fair words for foul purposes?" The young man gently clasped the former Steward's shoulders. "I warned you, Father, did I not, that the journey would be a daunting one."

After a moment, Denethor sighed. "Always were you stubborn, even as a child. Never did you leave a task unfinished."

Boromir smiled. "Did I not learn that from you, to persist even in the face of hardship?" He stood and held out his hand. Denethor took it, rising to his feet as well.

"I welcome your company, my son," he said, almost formally. "And I shall try to learn what you have been sent to teach me."

The moment he spoke the words, the fog and the forest disappeared, and bright sunlight shone over them once more.

"This land changes more oft than a woman's moods," the former Steward muttered.

Boromir laughed, shaking his head slightly. "Oh, my father. The wood was a device of your own making. Whenever a Man lets his pride get in his way, that pride keeps him from proceeding. It can even keep him from entering the Kingdom of Illuvatar." Seeing Denethor's expression, Boromir added reassuringly; "I know of what I speak, Father. When first I arrived here, my own pride was great."

The former Steward frowned. "Is that not a good thing, my son? Far more than most Men, you had a right to be proud."

Boromir shook his head. "I speak of pride, Father, not confidence. Pride lessens a Man, and will poison him over time. It makes him wish to dominate and destroy others, rather than love or serve them. It renders him unable to accept other Men for what they are." He paused. "As, it pains me to say, you did to my brother."

Denethor was exasperated. "Again, you speak to me of your brother! Even in Middle-Earth, it was always so! Why, always, does everyone speak to me of Faramir?"

"Because never did you know him for the gift he was, Father," his elder son said quietly. "Always, you sought to remake him in the image of the son you wished him to be. In so doing, you wronged him, and wronged yourself."

"I reared my sons as best I knew! If Faramir fell short, how was that my fault? I did the best I could!"

Boromir shook his head again. "Nay, Father, you did not. You thought of yourself, not of your sons. In your pride, you believed yourself to be entitled to a certain kind of son. Faramir was not what you wished him to be, and throughout his life, you punished him for it."

"I understand not your meaning!"

"Do you wish me to show you, then, Father?"

"More visions?"

"Yes."

Denethor sighed. "Proceed."


	5. Chapter 5

20

Title: "The Last Quest," Chapter Five

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Finduilas, Imrahil, OCs

Summary: Please see Chapter One.

Author's Note: Many thanks to those who took the trouble to review, as well as those who made this one of their favorite stories. There will be at least one more chapter after this one, possibly two. Thank you all for your patience.

The shimmering, as of distant heat, occurred again. With a combination of resignation and trepidation, Denethor waited…

"My lord?" A servant entered the chamber where the Steward of Gondor was hosting a diplomatic meeting. Among other mighty lords, the great wizard Saruman was present. In deference to this impressive company as well as to the Steward, the servant went down on one knee before Denethor.

The Steward paused and gazed down at the servant with a look that indicated the man's news had better be important. "Speak."

"The Lady Finduilas is having difficulty in giving birth, my lord. Both the midwife and the healer request that your lordship come to her chamber as soon as your lordship may."

Denethor's expression froze for an instant, and then became as hard as stone. The others present all diplomatically fell silent as the significance of the servant's words registered. King Theoden of Rohan, who had lost his own young wife in childbirth less than two years earlier, glanced sharply at the Steward.

Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, brother of Finduilas, spoke. "If the Lord Denethor were to dismiss this assemblage for the day, all Men would understand." There was a general chorus of agreement, although not from all. Saruman, for one, lowered his brows and frowned slightly as if annoyed at the possibility of being inconvenienced.

Denethor shook his head. "Nay, Lord Imrahil, it would not be meet for even the Steward of Gondor to put personal considerations above the cause of alliance. The Lady Finduilas understands this."

For just a moment, Imrahil's expression showed what he thought of that—the Denethor of later years, observing, was amazed that he had not noticed it at the time—but then the Prince's face became as smooth as glass, and he briefly inclined his head. "As the Steward decrees." It also seemed as if Imrahil placed a slight, unwelcome emphasis on the word "Steward," perhaps suggesting that Denethor was a better ruler than he was a husband.

Denethor leaned over to the servant, who still knelt before him. "I shall not neglect my duties here, but tell the healer that I shall visit my lady when circumstances permit." He leaned in even closer, lowering his voice until it was almost a hiss. "Tell the healer this also: if my lady dies, his own life is forfeit."

The servant's eyes widened. "Yes, my lord!" With a quick inclination of the head, the man rose and departed swiftly.

The Steward raised his head to meet the gaze of the Prince of Dol Amroth, who had not been quite close enough to hear Denethor's last order to the servant. Now, it was Prince Imrahil's expression that was like stone, and his eyes held no love for the Man married to his sister.

"Imrahil, you do not understand!" the older Denethor said aloud, as if his brother-in-law of long ago could hear him. The scene vanished.

"What did he not understand, Father?"

"I loved Finduilas, and held her in the greatest regard! But it is necessary for a Man to do his duty! I was the ruler of Gondor. It would not have been wise to show weakness before such a mighty assembly."

"Imrahil was a ruler, too," Boromir reminded his father. "Yet he did not consider concern or kindness to be weakness."

Denethor made a sound of contempt. "He ruled Dol Amroth—a small city on the sea! Not Gondor, the finest hope of the West!"

"Would you have been less the Steward, if you had gone to be with your wife during her hour of need?" Boromir countered.

"My son, had you lived to be Steward, you would understand," Denethor insisted. "It mattered not if my heart was smote by such news. As Steward of Gondor, I could not appear emotional before such mighty lords. They would have deemed it a weakness, and if they believed me weak, they would have deemed our land and our people equally so."

"Or is it, Father, that you were too proud to appear weak before other Men?" Boromir asked. Denethor did not answer. Boromir waited a moment to let the older man reflect on this before adding; "Let us continue…"

The shimmering began again. The vision resumed.

For all his assumption of dignity, Denethor finished diplomatic considerations for the day as swiftly as he could, and when the guests had been dismissed, he went straight to his wife's chamber. Impatient and anxious, he strode past the guards on duty outside, and thrust his way into the chamber. The healer whipped around, a look of fear on his face. The midwife, less intimidated, instantly shushed the Steward. "Please be quiet, my lord! Your lady is sleeping, and so is the babe."

"My lady is well, then?" Denethor felt his heartbeat finally begin to return to normal.

The healer turned pale at being addressed by the Steward, and answered quickly. "Yes, my lord! Or at least, she will be." Under Denethor's cold stare, the man visibly flinched and cried, "She will recover, my lord! I mean only that the Lady Finduilas is very tired!"

"Then she needs rest," Denethor said shortly. "Out, all of you. Now."

The others—servants and gentlewomen, with varying expressions of surprise, concern, or both on their faces—rose and left. The healer was only too glad to leave, but the midwife hesitated momentarily. "You have a second son, my lord," she told Denethor, before the doors closed behind her.

The Steward of Gondor scarcely heard the woman. He moved over to where his young wife lay, and sat down next to the bed. Finduilas looked pale and weary, even in sleep. He wanted to kiss her and stroke her hair, but was fearful of waking her. At that moment, he resolved that never again would he get her with child. This birth must be her last.

At that moment, the babe in the cradle next to the bed began to whimper. It was not a loud cry, as Boromir's had been at his birth. This sound was more like the mewling of a kitten. Denethor rose and gazed down at the infant.

Another son. He should have been pleased, and of course to some extent he was. But he was also somewhat disappointed. As he already had a fine, healthy male heir in Boromir, he had been hoping that his second child would be a daughter. She could have been used to form an alliance through marriage. A girl child would also have pleased Finduilas, who loved her son but wished for a daughter. That was a sentimental reason, but Denethor did like to please his young wife, if it did not contravene his own plans in any way.

The babe was still whimpering. Denethor tried to shush it, fearful that the sounds the infant made, small and fretful as they were, would awaken its mother, who so desperately needed rest. Still, he did not pick up the child. It was so small, smaller it seemed than Boromir had been at birth, and certainly Boromir had never made such feeble sounds. Was the child completely healthy? In the state of fear the healer had been in, the man might have been too fearful to say if it was not—

Finduilas stirred and murmured something unintelligible. Her eyes opened. Denethor sat down again, took her hand and kissed it.

"I have come, my love."

"Denethor." She gave him a weary smile. The babe's wails increased slightly in volume. She struggled to rise. "Help me to sit up."

He did so, but reluctantly. "You must rest, Finduilas."

"Not when my babe needs me," she said, and reached for the child. Fearful that she might strain herself, the Steward reached quickly for the infant, lifting the tiny creature from the crib and placing it carefully in the arms of its mother. Finduilas smiled down at the child, cuddling it, and then opened the front of her gown in order to nurse the babe.

"What shall we name him, husband?"

"Faramir, I think," Denethor said. "Two jewels are sufficient."

His young wife gave him a puzzled look, but before she could question him, there was a knocking at the double doors of the chamber. Finduilas pulled up the blankets to cover the babe and her naked breast. Denethor, irritated, rose and moved to the doors. The guards should have had sense enough not to permit any visitors at such a time.

But when he opened the door, his firstborn and the nanny were standing there. The woman said, "A certain young lord wishes to visit his mother and the new babe."

"Papa, papa!" Boromir was almost jumping up and down with excitement. "May I see Mama? And my new little sister?"

Denethor opened the doors so that the two visitors could enter, and then closed the doors firmly behind them. "You may, my son, but you have a brother, not a sister."

"Mama!" Boromir ran to his mother, who gave him a one-armed hug. He then tried to climb up onto the bed, but his father caught him before he could do so, and then sat down next to the bed, taking the five-year-old boy on his lap. The nanny remained standing.

Boromir peered down at the tiny bundle. "He is very small, Papa. And why do I have a brother? You said I would have a little sister."

Finduilas smiled at her firstborn. "We cannot always plan these things, my darling."

"Yes, my son," Denethor said. "You must be the big brother to Faramir, and protect him, as the strong always protect the weak."

Tears welled up in Finduilas' eyes. "He is not weak, just younger! How can you say such a thing, Denethor?"

"Your pardon, my love," the Steward replied, surprised at how much his wife was upset by the remark, which he had only made because he had been trying to include Boromir.

The five-year-old on his lap looked from one parent to the other.

"I will protect him, Papa," young Boromir said quickly. "And I am glad to have a little brother, Mama. It will give me someone to play with."

The three adults present all laughed. The Denethor of years later, watching this scene, felt an ache in his heart. Where had such happiness gone?

The vision faded.

"You were disappointed with Faramir from the day he was born, were you not?" the adult Boromir said quietly.

"He was not what I expected," the former Steward said defensively.

"Gifts given to us are sometimes not what we expect," his firstborn observed. "But they are gifts nevertheless."

"I tire of such veiled accusations," the older man retorted. "If you wish me to learn, you must be more specific."

"You loved my words not when last I was too specific, Father," Boromir reminded him. Denethor did not reply. The shimmering began again…

Both the Steward and his Lady were richly garbed, as were their young son and heir, and the newborn child. Denethor recognized the scene: the Great Hall. They had just finished with Faramir's Naming Ceremony.

"That went well," Denethor said, when Boromir had been taken off by his nanny, and the doors of the Steward's Chamber had closed behind husband and wife. "Now all the great realms of Middle-earth know that Gondor has a second son, as well as a strong firstborn. I anticipate no threat to Boromir, but it is just as well that all Men know there is a second son."

"Perhaps we shall have a daughter next time," Finduilas said, gazing fondly down at the babe in her arms. "But this little one is beautiful."

Denethor did not bother to tell his wife there would be no "next time." "Would that this child had been a daughter, for that would have been of greater use."

His lady glanced up, surprised. "What do you mean, husband?"

"If our second child had been a daughter, she could have married the son of the King of Rohan."

"Denethor!"

"I know that Rohan is hardly the equal of Gondor, my dear," he answered, misunderstanding the reason for his wife's upset. "But the Rohirrim are the closest free neighbors we have. King Theoden has but one son, and has shown no signs of taking another wife. If this child had been a daughter, we could have mingled our blood with his, and I might have controlled the thrones of both Gondor and Rohan."

"Husband!" Finduilas was shocked. "You are talking about the lives of children, one of them ours! How can you be so calculating? And why is controlling others so important to you?"

For the first time, Denethor spoke coldly to his wife. "All wise rulers are calculating, my lady, and seek to control what they may. It would be meet if you understood such a thing. As you do not, leave such matters to me. As this child is a man-child, not a maid, and Theoden has no daughter, it is not a matter which either of us must concern ourselves."

Finduilas stared at him for a moment. Then, without another word, in a swirl of skirts, she left the room, taking the babe with her….

As the vision faded, Boromir said; "Controlling others was always important to you, was it not, Father?"

"As it would have been to you, had you lived to be Steward," Denethor retorted. "Do you believe statesmanship is the result of blind chance?"

"No, Father. And I know your situation was not that of most other Men," his firstborn replied, surprising the older man. "You were Steward of Gondor; of course you were required to wield power. But even in those days, when you had been not long on the throne, you began to regard the wielding of power over others not as a sometimes necessary duty, but as your right—and anything that gainsaid you as wrong. Moreover, persuasion oft is better than force, and not all things can or should be controlled."

"You tell me it was my duty to wield power, and then condemn me for doing so!"

"Peace, Father," Boromir said patiently. "That is not what I said. Perhaps this will be of more use than my words…"

The shimmering manifested itself again. Rather to the surprise of the present Denethor, there was no sign that anything of any great import was transpiring. The vision showed only his younger self and his wife seated on a bench in a secluded area of the garden that Finduilas so loved.

"You wished to see me, my lady?"

Finduilas smiled faintly. "Yes, husband, although it seems unfortunate that I must arrange a meeting with the man I love."

Her husband stirred restlessly, and the Denethor of later days recalled that by this time in their marriage, this had become an area of contention between them. "Your husband is also the Steward of Gondor, my lady, and I have little time for private pursuits."

"Then I shall endeavor not to waste the Steward's time," his young wife replied, and looking on, Denethor was shocked both at the crispness of her tone, and of his own self's cool attitude toward her. Surely this was not how it had been between them? He did not remember it so. But Finduilas was continuing…

"I think it not good that you take counsel so much with the wizard Saruman, my lord."

The Denethor of previous days was astonished. "Why say you that, my lady? He is called the Wise, and is the highest and noblest of his order."

"But he has little heart," his wife countered. "He looks upon Men as things to be used, not to be loved, and he has little benevolence for the other folk of Middle-Earth."

"He cares for the Men of Gondor, which is all that concerns me."

Finduilas hesitated, studying him, and said carefully; "Does he, husband? Or does he merely flatter you?"

"Wife, I am not some young maiden whose head is easily turned by flattery! Do you think me a fool?"

She put her small hand on his. "No, my dearest. It is because you are such a great and powerful ruler that Saruman wishes to have you on his side. I do not believe him to be trustworthy. Mithrandir, on the other hand—"

"Saruman the White, not Mithrandir, is the most powerful wizard in Middle-Earth," her husband said, as if that settled matters. "Thus, it is Saruman's counsel I would take." He stood up; clearly, as far as he was concerned, this meeting was at an end. "If that is all, my lady…"

"No, husband, that is not all," Finduilas said, and took a deep breath. "Please sit down."

The Steward resumed his seat. Denethor, watching this vision and suddenly remembering this conversation of years ago, had a feeling of dread.

"My wine has had a somewhat bitter taste of late, my lord, but I thought naught of it until I found one of the serving maids stirring herbs into my cup." As she spoke, Finduilas regarded her husband steadily. "When I spoke with her, she admitted that she had been ordered to do so by the Steward himself. She told me that the herbs formed a concoction that would keep me from getting with child, and that it was the Wizard Saruman who had provided them, with instructions as to how they were to be used." She waited. Denethor said nothing. "Is this true, husband?"

"Gondor has two heirs. We need no more."

"That is not the point, Denethor." His young wife took a deep breath, as if striving for patience. "Do you not think this is a matter you should have discussed with me?"

"No," he said bluntly. "I know that you wish for a maid-child, my love, but one is not needed. We have two sons, so more of them are not needed, either. Childbirth has always been difficult for you. I would rather keep you safe than have more children."

"It was still a decision that we should have made together!"

"I am the Steward, my lady. The decision was mine, and I saw no reason for talking of the matter. My decision would have been the same."

"No reason? Denethor, it is my body, my life, and our children!" Finduilas' voice rose and she trembled with outrage. "Do you not comprehend what you have done? You are my husband! I should be able to trust you!"

"You can, my love." He tried to take her hand, but she snatched it back. "You should trust me to care for and protect you, as I care for and protect all of Gondor."

Finduilas was weeping now—not in the tearful bursts she had sometimes done in the early days of their marriage, but in a quiet, miserable, terrifyingly hopeless way. The Denethor of earlier years appeared slightly uncomfortable, but no more than that. The later Denethor, observing all this, felt such pain at his wife's misery and the knowledge that he was responsible that he could scarcely stand it.

When the Denethor of the vision reached for his wife, she jerked back from him, turning away her face. "Leave me, Denethor, please," she gasped between sobs.

The Steward rose, bowed to her, and walked away, leaving his sweet young wife weeping desperately on the bench. She looked so frail and alone…

There was some mercy at last as the vision faded.

"I cannot believe I left her, alone and without comfort," Denethor said, more to himself than to Boromir. "I must have been mad."

His firstborn shook his head. "Nay, Father, you were not mad, not then. Do you not recall how privately you dismissed your wife's concerns as just womanly foolishness? Nor was that an isolated incident. You did love her, but you wished to possess her. You were filled with pride, believing that as Steward of Gondor, you had the right to control and manipulate her as you saw fit."

"I thought I was acting for her good," Denethor protested, but without quite as much force as before. "Would you have had your mother die young in childbirth?"

His elder son's gaze met his own. "But she did die young, did she not, Father?"

"Of an illness. That was not my fault."

"The illness was not of your doing, Father, that is true. But the despair Mother felt at being caged, of being disregarded, of being lonely—all that was indeed your doing, and all that contributed to her death."

Denethor passed a weary hand over his eyes, as if by so doing he could wipe away the memories revived by the visions. "You accuse me of being responsible for your Mother's death? I fear now that you are right. I was a fool, an arrogant fool. I was wrong to think I should control her. I ground down her will, her high spirits, her sweetness, as water upon a rock. I know all this, so be merciful, and show me no more! For a long time, I thought I knew what was best for her. But you must believe me, my son; I loved her, too. If I kept her too close, it was at least partly because I wished for her good."

The trees around them suddenly were filled with mallorn leaves that turned the area to gold and silver. Flowers bloomed about them. Denethor was amazed by such beauty. Boromir was smiling.

"Do you see yonder river, Father?"

Denethor glanced up, and was astonished. The river was very close now, so close he could even see glimmers of the land beyond it…

"How has this happened? We have not moved!"

Boromir chuckled and clapped a hand on his father's shoulder. "You have learned so much, Father, accepted many of your faults, and repented of your bad treatment of Mother. That has brought you much closer to your goal. The Kingdom of Eru is closer than ever."

Denethor felt a childlike pleasure at this, and at his firstborn's encouragement and praise. "I am glad, my son. Thank you. Will we cross over soon?"

Boromir hesitated. "Not yet, Father. We have not yet examined your worst sin of all."

"When I looked into the palantir." Denethor felt a feeling of dread. "I curse the day when first I looked into that evil thing. I was mad to believe I could pit my will against that of Sauron."

"No, Father," Boromir said, surprising him. "The palantir had been turned to evil by the Dark Lord, but that was not your doing. Using it was unwise and somewhat arrogant in that you believed your will to be stronger than it was. But that was no great sin on your part, terrible though the consequences were. Your misunderstanding of the vision of the black ships approaching Gondor may have inspired your suicide, but your feet treaded the path of wrongdoing long before they arrived at that sin."

The former Steward was astonished. "I understand not your meaning, my son. What other wrongdoing have I done that was so much worse?"

Boromir looked at him. The young man spoke one word quietly, but with great emphasis: "Faramir."


	6. Chapter 6

35

Title: "The Last Quest," Chapter Six

Author: Darkover

Rating: K

Disclaimer: Please see Chapter One.

Characters: Denethor, Boromir, Faramir, Finduilas, Gandalf, Ioreth, OCs

Summary: Please see Chapter One. This is the final chapter.

"I know not why everyone blames me for your brother's faults," Denethor grumbled.

"Faramir has no more faults than any other Man," Boromir answered. "And fewer than most."

"Eru help Gondor, now that you and I both are gone. Your brother is not what our land needs."

Boromir's eyesbrows rose. "Or is it, Father, that he was not what you needed?"

"I needed nothing from him! I indulged him, and how did he repay me? By becoming some wizard's pupil!"

"Let us see how you 'indulged' him, Father," Boromir said dryly. Before the former Steward could respond, the familiar shimmering began….

At first, Denethor was uncertain what he was supposed to see. He was viewing a dark room where a man and a woman lay sleeping in bed. Then, an infant's crying, not very loud or strong but penetrating in the silence, disturbed the night's stillness. The woman sat up instantly, and he saw it was Finduilas.

"Leave him," the man said, and Denethor recognized his own voice. "The nurse will care for him."

"He is hungry, husband," his young wife replied. "I can tell." As she spoke, she rose from the bed, moved quietly into the next room, and returned with the infant Faramir in her arms. Resuming her place in the bed, she opened the front of her gown to suckle him. The child's father, who by now was also sitting up in bed, regarded his infant son with a clear lack of enthusiasm.

"You should choose a wet nurse for him," Denethor said. "Then our sleep would be undisturbed."

"So you have said," Finduilas replied tersely. It was clear that even in the few months of the child's birth, this had become a long-running source of dissention between husband and wife. "You did not complain so when I nursed our older son myself."

"Boromir cried only when it was necessary," Denethor answered. "And he did not sound like a weak kitten when he did." With that, the Denethor of younger days rolled over and went back to sleep.

The vision faded, and now Denethor was confronted by his older son, who gazed at him with accusatory eyes. "You blamed Faramir for crying as a babe, Father?"

"I was thinking of your mother," the former Steward protested. "She had a most difficult time recovering from the birth of your brother, and such nightly disturbances did her no good! I wished only for her best!"

"Or was it, Father, that you wished what was best for you?" Boromir countered. "By caring for Faramir herself, Mother had less time and energy to devote to you. Faramir was only a babe then, Father. Yet you resented him, considered him needy, in a way you never did me."

Denethor threw up his hands in exasperation. "I tell you as I told your mother—he would have been well enough with a wet nurse! She would not listen to me, and she grew weary and became frail as a result. My concern was for her! But it matters not what I say, you condemn me, regardless!"

Boromir shook his head. "It is to keep you from being condemned that we are here, Father. I seek to help you to understand and accept the truth."

His father glared at him. "The truth is that your brother was weaker, even as a child. He was needy, and drained your mother's health."

"You think so, Father? Let us observe another situation…"

The shimmering this time revealed a scene that was as bright as the previous one had been dark. The wife of the Steward and her younger son were together on a beautiful sunny day. The sun shone on the gold of Finduilas' hair, there was color in her face, and as she gazed down at her small child, her eyes were bright with happiness.

"…And this is how you must plant the seedlings, Faramir," Finduilas instructed. She was demonstrating a gardening procedure to her younger son, who was watching her with a rapt attention that was remarkable for a four-year-old. "You try it now."

"Yes, Mama," the child said, and began eagerly digging into the dirt with the wooden implement in his hand.

A sharp masculine voice disturbed the fine spring day. "Faramir! What do you think you are doing?"

The child jumped, startled by the loudness of his father's voice; even Finduilas started slightly. The wooden object flew out of Faramir's small hands to land at his father's feet.

"Pick it up," Denethor said, in the same sharp tone. Stumbling slightly in an effort to obey quickly, the child did so. The Steward emitted a loud, exasperated sigh and actually rolled his eyes at the clumsiness of his younger son.

"Denethor," Finduilas said with a tone of warning in her voice.

"Now," the Steward of Gondor said, ignoring his wife and continuing to address his son in the manner of an acerbic schoolmaster, "what is that you have in your hands?"

His young son gave him a bewildered look. "My sword, Papa."

"That is correct," Denethor said, in the same tone of exaggerated patience. "And it is not to be used to dig in the earth, is it?"

"No, Papa," Faramir said in a small voice.

"My lord, it is but a toy," Finduilas said, her own voice unusually sharp. "How he plays with it is scarcely an affair of state." The Denethor of later days, watching this vision, wondered for the first time if his wife had meant that as a criticism of his exaggerated sense of authority as Steward.

"Wooden toy or not, it is still a sword, my lady," the Denethor of younger days retorted. "Our son must learn to use it properly." He looked down at the little boy. "Your brother would never misuse his weapons." The Denethor of later days, observing this scene, saw how much he towered over his small son, saw how visibly nervous Faramir was made by his looming presence and his anger, and privately marveled that he had never realized this before. He felt an unfamiliar twinge of guilt but pushed it away. Was it his fault the boy was so easily intimidated?

"I'm sorry, Papa," Faramir whispered. Denethor emitted another exasperated sigh at the lack of spirit in his younger offspring.

"Denethor, enough!" Finduilas was genuinely angry now. "Boromir is Boromir, and Faramir is Faramir!"

"Believe me, my lady, I am well aware which son is which," her husband retorted. "The difference is obvious."

Tears welled up in Faramir's eyes. "Papa, Mama, please don't fight!"

Finduilas put her arms around the child. "We are not fighting, my darling. We are just having a discussion." Denethor looked away, barely containing his annoyance at how the boy clung to his mother's skirts. Boromir never behaved thus, not even when he was as young as this one. The Steward feared that his younger son would be a disappointment to his House.

"Go," he told his young son abruptly. "Take your sword with you, and learn to use it properly next time."

When the child was out of earshot, Finduilas said; "You are too harsh with him."

"No, my lady, it is that you coddle him," the Denethor of younger days retorted. "But that will soon cease to be an issue."

Finduilas stared at him. "What do you mean, husband?"

"It is time Faramir began learning what it means to be of the Ruling House of Gondor. After this week, he will no longer play in the nursery, but must join his brother in learning the use of weapons."

Color drained from Finduilas' face, so quickly that the Denethor watching this vision was alarmed. "Denethor, you cannot mean it! The child is but four years old! Boromir did not begin such training until he was six!"

"The need for such training becomes more pressing with every passing year, my lady," her husband responded curtly. "And I think it will be best for you both, in the long run."

"I do not understand."

Her husband's expression indicated that he was not at all surprised. "This boy is softer than his brother, so it is best that the training begin earlier. And I fear that his constant need for attention from you serves only to feed his neediness, while imposing on your health."

"That is nonsense!"

"That is my decision," the Steward said flatly. He bowed to her briefly, then turned and left the garden. Finduilas stood alone, pale and shaking. It was only after her husband was gone that she began to weep, as if she had learned long ago that tears made no impression upon him at all.

"Enough," the Denethor of later days said desperately. He had done what was best, surely, but he could scarcely bear to see the toll it had taken on his wife.

"Why, Father?" Boromir said quietly. He did not say it accusingly, but more as if he truly did not understand, and wished to. "Why did you keep them apart, when they loved each other so?"

"You do not understand," Denethor managed. Even to him, it was becoming a rather tiresome refrain. "You were only a child at the time; you knew not of how much the power of Mordor battered at our city, how great the need was for Gondor to be protected. I demanded much in the defense of Minas Tirith, even from ordinary Men. How could I spare my own family? Circumstances required that my sons learn to defend themselves, that early must they learn the path of duty. And your mother coddled your brother so. It was not good for him, and his neediness took a toll on her health."

"As great a toll as being parted from him?" Boromir asked. Denethor did not answer. His older son and guide emitted a quiet sigh. "As it was, Father, Mother died untimely. That had consequences, too…"

"No!" Denethor cried, knowing and fearing what was to come, but the shimmering had already begun….

"It is the crisis, my lord, and the fever shows no sign of breaking," the haggard-looking healer informed the Steward. "I am sorry, but the Lady Finduilas will not survive the night."

"No!" Denethor brushed past the man to get to his wife's bed side. The women tending her all stood back, save the woman whom he realized had been the midwife at Faramir's birth. It came to Denethor, in a distracted sort of way, that the woman's name was Ioreth. Now she was gently applying a cool compress to Finduilas' brow. The Steward grasped his wife's hand. "Finduilas! Do not leave me! Do not leave our sons!"

Finduilas' once-golden hair now appeared lackluster. Her always-delicate skin was now the texture of thin paper, her once-bright eyes were closed, the lids lavender-colored. Her breath already had a rattling quality that boded ill, and her husband, clutching her hand, felt the unhealthy heat of the fever that raged in her too-thin body. At her husband's desperate words, her eyes flickered beneath the lids, but did not open.

The healer placed a gentle hand on the Steward's shoulder. "My lord…perhaps you should allow your sons to enter. The lady may wake before the end, and this will be their last chance to say goodbye to her."

Denethor abruptly rounded on him. "No! There is one thing yet that has not been tried! We must summon the wizard!"

The healer looked bewildered. "Mithrandir? It—it is true that he is within the city, my lord, but he came here to research arcane matters in the library of Minas Tirith, not heal the sick. How can he do more than what we have done?"

"He is a wizard, is he not?" Denethor snapped. "Send for him! Let him work some spell to save the life of my lady!"

"My lord, there is nothing anyone can do," Ioreth spoke up. "If you truly wish to help the Lady Finduilas, you should let her go. At your order, her life has been prolonged too long as it is. Grant her a peaceful passing."

"No one asked you, woman!" Denethor snarled. "Am I not to be obeyed? Send for the wizard! NOW!"

A youth who was fleet of foot was instantly dispatched with a message for Mithrandir. The others busied themselves with mostly fruitless attempts to make the dying woman more comfortable. Denethor, unable to bear the sight of Finduilas suffering, hating the sight and smells of the sickroom, stepped outside his wife's bedchamber. As he strove to bring himself under control, a nursemaid approached with his two young sons.

"I did not send for you," Denethor said shortly to the woman.

"I want to see Mother," said Boromir, before the nursemaid could speak. At ten years of age he was already tall and strong, clear of eye and of complexion, the fair hair he had inherited from his mother already beginning to darken a little. Five-year-old Faramir trailed along with him, his small hand clutching the hand of his older brother. He was a bit small for his age, and his red-gold curls were a little long, making him appear girlish. His eyes were wide and worried, and he kept looking from his brother to his father and back again, as if he did not quite understand what was happening, only that something was wrong.

Denethor tried to force a smile, trying to assure his sons that things were normal. "You will, my son. When she is better."

"You keep saying that," Boromir said angrily. "I want to see her now!" His jaw set in a way that was very like his father.

"Please, Papa," Faramir said, his voice tiny and pleading. "We have not seen Mama for such a long time."

Denethor looked down at his younger son, and although he was aware that he should feel concern, pity, and tenderness, all he felt at that moment was a flash of irritation. The boy sounded as meek as a maid-child!

"My lord," the nursemaid began softly. "Perhaps it would be best…"

She broke off as the youthful messenger returned, with a cloaked, be-hatted figure just behind him. Gandalf the Grey, also known as Mithrandir.

"Gandalf!" Faramir cried, sounding almost happy. He tried to run to the old man, but his nurse held him back. For an instant, Denethor almost hated his younger son, for acting so glad to see the wizard, while being so timid and restrained in the presence of his father.

"Mithrandir," the Steward said without preamble, "my lady is desperately ill. Heal her, and I shall reward you with whatever is in my power to give."

The old man's shaggy eyebrows contracted, and his mouth opened, but then he glanced at the two young boys and closed it again just as abruptly. "I am no healer, but I shall do what I can," he said gruffly, and entered the sickroom.

Denethor stood, waiting. He could not bring himself to re-enter the sickroom. The boys stood looking at him, Boromir shifting impatiently from one foot to the next. The nurse, seeing this, quietly took both boys to a nearby bench, where they all sat down. Boromir stared at the door to his mother's chamber. Faramir looked at him, then at the nurse, who did not make eye contact, and then at his father, who did not look at him at all.

Only a few minutes passed, but they seemed like an eternity to the Steward. Unable to wait any longer, Denethor pushed open the door and re-entered the bedchamber. Mithrandir was on one side of the bed, Ioreth on the other. Everyone else stood slightly back; the atmosphere was hushed. Ioreth was holding Finduilas' hand, stroking it gently; Mithrandir bent slightly over the pathetic figure on the bed, his hand on her brow. As the Steward came through the doors the wizard withdrew his hand and straightened. One look at his wife's still form told Denethor all he needed to know.

"What have you done, wizard? She is dead! What have you done?"

"I have done what I could," Gandalf said quietly. "I took away the pain from the Lady Finduilas, and eased her passing."

"You were supposed to save her! I ordered you to save her!"

"Such things are beyond the province even of the Wise," Gandalf said softly. "The Lady Finduilas was a kind and gentle lady, much loved by all. I would have healed her if it had been within my power. It was not, so I did what I could."

Denethor felt his eyes burn, felt his heart pound. "Then what use are you, wizard? Begone from my sight! Leave my city by break of day on the morrow, or it will go ill with you!"

Ioreth seemed about to speak, but for once kept silent. Gandalf merely bowed, and then swept past Denethor.

The Steward looked at Ioreth. "Do what you must, mistress, to prepare the body of the Lady Finduilas for her funeral." Before the woman could reply, Denethor turned his back on them all, and strode from the room.

In the hallway, there was no sign of Mithrandir, but his sons had resumed their position just outside the door. The nurse spoke. "My lord, I told them they should sit and wait, but—" she fell silent at the sight of the Steward's face.

Denethor looked down at the boys. "My sons, your mother is dead."

Boromir stared at him. Faramir whimpered, tears welling up in his eyes.

At the sound of his younger son's crying, a boiling rage suffused Denethor's brain, and his hand flew up to strike—

"Father, no!" Boromir stepped quickly between his younger brother and his father, and stood regarding his father with a rather shaky defiance.

The Steward lowered his arm, took a deep breath, and then another.

"Mama!" Faramir started to wail. Boromir turned to him quickly, put an arm around him, and with the other gently placed a hand over the younger child's mouth. He shook his head slightly at Faramir, flicking a gaze at their father as if warning his brother. Faramir instantly fell silent and blinked back his tears. The Denethor of later years, observing this, was stunned. Not only did he not remember ever coming so close to striking his younger son, he realized that from the defensive actions of the older boy, and the swiftly obedient response of the younger one, that this incident might have been unusual, but clearly was not unique. Had he truly been such an ogre? He did not remember it that way at all.

"You shall not weep," the Denethor of this vision was saying inexorably. His expression was like stone, his eyes dark with pain and no hint of pity or understanding. "You are the sons of the Steward of Gondor, of the House of Anarion, and of the House of Hurin long before that. So you shall not weep, or betray any other sign of weakness. Is that understood?"

Boromir swallowed hard, but said firmly; "Yes, Father."

"Yes, Father," Faramir said hesitantly.

At last, the vision faded. Denethor felt drained, and said quietly to Boromir, "Thank you. I do not believe I could have borne much more."

"You are stronger than you think, Father, and it was necessary," his firstborn said gently. "But let us sit down."

He guided his father to a large, flat stone that was set nearby. Denethor did not believe it had been there a few minutes earlier, but that sort of thing was the least unusual aspect of this strange land. The two Men sat down together. Boromir sat quietly, bracing his father with a hand on the older man's shoulder, giving Denethor time to absorb the experience.

"I recall matters not that way at all," Denethor said at last. "I remember the pain of your mother's death—I remember that all too well. I recall the presence of the wizard, and the anger I felt at his uselessness. I recall telling my sons that their mother was dead. But I recall not the rest of it. Is that truly what happened?"

"Yes, Father."

Denethor turned toward his older son, his expression stark. "Was I truly such a bad father as all that?"

"Sometimes, Father," Boromir said, very gently. "Usually you were good to me. Faramir was another matter. To him, seldom were you kind, and seldom did you show the love I know you bore him."

"I remember it not," Denethor repeated. He paused, and then looked at Boromir again, sorrow writ large on his face. "You…you never called me 'Papa' after that."

Boromir's brow furrowed. "What?"

"Never did you—or your brother—call me 'Papa' after that day. I realize that now. Ever after, you only addressed me as 'Father,' or 'my lord.' Why is that?"

Boromir stared at him as if this should have been obvious, but answered with patience. "Because after that day, you ceased to be our papa. You withdrew unto yourself, and had little time for us. You were still our father, but our 'papa' was gone, along with our mother."

"I am sorry," Denethor whispered. "My son, I am so sorry."

"It was hard on us both," Boromir admitted frankly, "but far worse on Faramir. He was younger, and did not fully realize what had happened, or why. All he knew was that our mother was gone, our father was changed, and you were more distant, and showed even greater harshness to him than ever before."

"My wife—your mother—had just died!" Denethor argued, some of the old arrogance and anger returning to his tone. "You must admit I was not always so harsh!"

"To Faramir, you were, Father," Boromir insisted. Before Denethor could disagree, the shimmering began again…

"Mistress, I have spoken to you of this matter before, have I not?"

Faramir's nurse moistened her lips, visibly unnerved by the Steward's tightly controlled anger. She said placatingly, "Yes, my lord. But little Miriel is from a most respectable family, the daughter of one of your own captains—"

"That is not the issue. My son will not pass his time playing with maid-children! It is bad enough that you are so lavish with your hugs and kisses. I insist that you cease that ridiculously emotional behavior as well. It is not the way to raise a warrior of Gondor."

"Please, my lord, I mean no harm," the nursemaid begged. "Miriel is one of the few playmates your younger son has, and she is the only maid-child! Faramir has been so lonely since his lady mother passed away—"

"Woman, I do not intend to debate the matter with you! If my son plays with this maid-child again, he shall be removed from your care, and you shall be banished from the city! Is that understood?"

The nurse blanched. "Yes, my lord!" She curtsied deeply, and left the room quickly when the Steward dismissed her.

That shimmering began, shifting to another scene, a year or two later, Denethor realized, because Faramir was clad in the livery of Minas Tirith, which had been made for him when he was eight years old. He was standing in the Hall of Judgment, before the throne of Gondor. Only the child and his father were present.

"There," the Denethor of younger days was saying in an unusually indulgent tone. "You now have your own livery, just like your brother's. Are you not proud?"

The child Faramir beamed. "Yes, Father!"

"I trust you will apply yourself as diligently to your studies and your practice as Boromir does to his."

"Yes, Father. Master Celebrim says I am most advanced in my reading, writing, and sums. He told me that I have a true talent for drawing, and that he has never had a pupil who was better at learning Elvish languages!"

"Perhaps," Denethor said, in a tone so dismissive that the Denethor of later years, listening to this, felt an urge to wince. "But I refer to your martial training. You must learn to master fighting with the sword, the knife, and the bow."

Young Faramir hesitated. "Must I truly, Father? I do not like to hurt others. I hate the thought of killing and dying."

"Of course you must! Would you rather others were capable of hurting or killing you? Or your brother, or your people?"

"No, Father! But…" the child stopped, biting his lip.

"But what?" Denethor barked. "Always you do this! If you must speak, boy, have the courage to say what is on your mind!"

Faramir swallowed nervously and said, a bit shakily; "M-must Gondor always fight, Father? I know there is no reasoning with Orcs, but the Easterlings, the Haradrim, the Southrons, they are all Men too. Might they not become our allies, if circumstances were different? Mithrandir said—"

"Quote not that wizard to me," Denethor snapped. "You have much to learn, if you think peace is achieved simply by wishing for it. Train to be a soldier of Gondor. That is what is important."

Faramir lowered his gaze. "Yes, Father."

The Steward, seated on his throne, gazed with such disgust at the child before him that the Denethor of later days, observing this, was sickened by his own bullying behavior. "Enough. Go, practice your weapons training. Try, at least, to make yourself worthy of the livery of Gondor!"

"Yes, Father," the young boy said woodenly. He bowed to the Steward, who no longer paid him any notice. Then he backed away, turned, and walked out of the Hall of Judgment. Once the doors had closed behind him, he took off at a run. He barely made it to his bedchamber, with the door closed behind him, before he began to shake. He fell onto his bed, weeping….

The vision ended. Boromir stood looking at Denethor. There was silence. At last his firstborn said; "Have you nothing to say, Father?"

"That your brother was soft, this I knew. I did not realize he was so sensitive. I should have spoken with less harshness, had I known. But what I said was true. Peace is not achieved just by wishing for it."

"He was an eight-year-old child, Father, not an envoy from a land with which you were at war," Boromir said shortly. "Who would not be 'sensitive' to a barrage of continual criticism? Why could you never see what was good in Faramir? Why is it, Father, that the very characteristics you loved in our mother, you despised so in your younger son?"

Denethor's temper snapped. "What was goodness in her—her gentleness, her kindness, her love of beauty, of learning, her wish for peace—can be fatal in a warrior! Would you have had me encourage such dangerous softness in your brother? Such a path, if he had been allowed to continue on it, would have led to his death, and to the destruction of all our people!"

"No, Father," Boromir said quietly. "Faramir is stronger than you realize. He became strong in spite of you, not because of you. Consider this…"

As his firstborn spoke, the shimmering began again, and another scene presented itself…

Faramir, now appearing to be about nine or ten years old, was absorbed in a book. His tutor, an elderly man with a noble bearing, sat on the other side of the table, observing him with a quiet smile.

"How fares my son in his studies, Master Celebrim?" Denethor's voice sounded almost too loud in the library. The Denethor of later days, seeing this vision, was shocked when the young boy, startled from his reverie, visibly flinched as he turned to face his father.

"He is doing very well indeed, my lord," the tutor said proudly. "His reading level is most advanced, far beyond that of a typical child of his age."

"What are you reading?" the Steward asked his son curtly. Without waiting for an answer he reached out and all but snatched the book from his son's hands. The Denethor of later days was beginning to realize that such unpleasantness was the norm whenever he had treated with his younger son, and began to feel a bit ill.

"The 'Lay of Luthien,'" the Steward said, reading the title aloud, scorn creeping into his voice. "A romantic poem. Hardly fitting for a boy who must someday lead Men of Gondor into battle!" Denethor tossed the scroll onto the table contemptuously.

"But Father, it is history," Faramir said earnestly. "And it is most interesting!"

"It is a highly romanticized version of history," his father said dismissively. "And you should not waste your time with such nonsense. When you study history, learn the story of Gondor and her battles, as your brother does. He wastes not his time reading Elvish poetry!"

Faramir lowered his eyes. "Yes, Father."

Denethor inhaled and let his breath out in a loud, impatient sigh. Whenever Boromir was pushed, verbally or otherwise, he pushed back. When Faramir was pushed, he lowered his gaze submissively and clearly wondered what he had done wrong.

"Be about your studies," the Steward said shortly. "In future, make certain you study something more useful."

He turned and left the room. The tutor followed him out. "My lord, a word, if I may…"

Denethor turned. "Speak."

The elderly man blinked at the Steward's abruptness, but continued. "Your son is most intelligent, and his level of skill in learning is unparalleled. You should be proud of him."

"Proud?" The Denethor of later days winced at the withering scorn in the voice of his former self. "Because he reads poetry? Because he is fluent in the Elvish tongues? Of what use is that? Gondor needs soldiers, not scholars! If you cannot teach him something more useful, Master Celebrim, then I shall have to find another tutor for my son!"

Denethor had one last sight of the appalled look on the old tutor's face as the vision dimmed….

"You did replace Master Celebrim not long after that, did you not, Father?" Boromir said.

"That was my right," the former Steward answered, although without the same degree of conviction as before. "He was a bad influence on your brother. If the old man had not encouraged your brother in such foolishness, I should not have had to remove him from his post."

"Whatever your reasoning, Father, once again you kept Faramir apart from someone he loved and respected. You kept him apart from Mother, from Miriel, from Gandalf—"

"That old meddler used your brother for his own purposes! He turned my son against me!"

"—From Master Celebrim." Boromir paused. "Even from me, when you could."

"Are you mad? When did I ever keep you and your brother apart?"

"As often as you could, Father," Boromir replied, unfazed. "Did you not always give us separate tutors? Did you not punish Faramir whenever you learned he had come to my bedchamber after having bad dreams?"

"He had to learn not to rely on you!"

"When we had both grown to manhood, did you not give us separate assignments, send us to different areas whenever possible?"

"I sent you where the need was greatest, because I knew that you would not fail me! I could not rely on your brother!"

Boromir continued, "Did you not compare him unfavorably to me, countless times? Even when we were boys, I often wondered why my brother did not hate and resent me. Surely he must have grown weary of your telling him how much better I supposedly was!"

"It was the truth! How was it my fault if you were a better Man than your brother?"

Boromir was shaking his head. "But it was not true, Father. Faramir is as good a Man, and in many ways a better one, than ever I was. Certainly he was wiser and stronger than I when it came to the test."

"Again you speak in riddles! What test?"

"I refer to the Ring, of course. It was Isildur's Bane, and would have been mine too, had I succeeded in taking it from the Halfling who bore it. It would have been yours as well, had Faramir made the mistake of bringing it to Minas Tirith."

"Not so! Neither you nor I would have used it, save in uttermost need!"

His elder son looked at him pityingly. "And do you not think, Father, that this 'uttermost need' would have occurred as soon as we had possession of the foul thing? To use it even once would have been too much."

"You say that now, because we have left Gondor behind. No doubt our people are now dead or enslaved because your brother let this mighty weapon go," Denethor said bitterly.

"Nay, Father, it is not," Boromir said gently. "The vision you saw in the palantir was deceptive."

"The palantir cannot lie."

"But Sauron had mastered it, and he is a master of lies." Boromir held up a hand as the former Steward began to speak. "I know that long you strove with the Dark Lord, Father, your will against his, but alas, your will was not as strong, nor your mind as sure, as you in your pride believed it to be. I tell you true; Sauron controlled what you saw with the seeing-stone, and how you perceived it. The corsairs that you saw coming to Minas Tirith were indeed a vast fleet, originally bent on destroying our people. What you did not know was that they had been taken over by Aragorn and his followers."

"Aragorn son of Arathorn? That upstart Ranger! He sought to supplant me—"

"Father, he is the rightful king. Even I accepted that in time. But that is not what we are speaking of. Do you not realize that this false information was what led you to commit suicide, and attempt to murder Faramir as well?"

"It was better than life as the Dark Lord's thrall, which would have been our fate!"

"Not so, Father. Have I not made that clear? You acted on wrong information. Even had your vision of the palantir been true, you had no right to take your life, much less that of my brother."

"It is my life, and he is my son!"

"Your life was yours only by the blessing of Illuvatar, Father, and while Faramir is your son, he is not your possession, to dispose of as you like!" Boromir said, his voice rising. For a long moment, father and son stared at each other. Finally, Denethor looked away.

"I fear you need more examples, Father," Boromir said quietly. Denethor tried to speak, tried to protest, but the visions began again.

This time, they came one after another. Faramir, being kept apart from his brother by his father. Faramir, being criticized as if he were half-witted, or a coward, by his father, before adults when the Steward's son was but a child, and then later, before other Men. Faramir, being criticized by Denethor for not being as skilful with the knife, or the bow, or the blade, as Boromir was. Faramir, being punished for spending time with Gandalf, or for speaking to defend himself against his father's criticisms. Always, did Denethor treat his younger son with disdain, with anger, with unkindness. Never did Denethor strike his younger son, but his tongue was like a lash, ever flaying Faramir's spirit. Until at last, Denethor sent his younger son, and his son's men, off on a hopeless mission, unblessed, unthanked, only to have him return, wounded and poisoned at the point of death. And then, instead of treating his illness and wounds, ordering Men to bear him away to what was to be their funeral pyre….

"Cease!" Denethor screamed. "Have mercy! I can bear no more!"

The vision stopped. Denethor sat on the flat stone with his head in his hands, rocking back and forth. His pain was palpable. He said hoarsely, "I do not believe it. I will not."

"I have shown you the truth, Father," Boromir said softly. "I know it is painful—"

The former Steward's head snapped up. "But you have not shown me the whole truth! Where are the times I showed your brother kindness? Did I not teach him to ride a horse? Did I not play chess with him? Did I take him hunting and fishing? Did I not engage in weapons practice with him?"

"Did you, Father?" Boromir asked. "I recall none of that."

Denethor started to speak, and then stopped. He realized suddenly, belatedly, that he had done those things…but only with Boromir. Never with Faramir. Never with his younger son. Now, he could not recall ever showing any positive individual attention to Faramir.

"Why, Father?" Boromir persisted. "I have asked you this question oft before, but never did you answer it. Faramir loved you, he had many talents, he was a son of which any other Man might have been proud. But that was never enough for you. Never did you accept him for who he was. Why did you dislike him so?"

"He was weak," was all the former Steward could think of to say.

"But has it not been demonstrated to you, Father, that Faramir is not weak?" Boromir's tone was gentle, but relentless. "Of your sons, it is he who is most like our mother, whom you loved so dearly, and yet—"

"He was *weak,* I tell you! I had to break him of that softness, that weakness, make him *strong,* NOT LIKE FINDUILAS—!" Denethor stopped in mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open, realizing he had been screaming, and aghast at what he had been about to say.

"Like Finduilas? Who died young?" Boromir said. His voice was very gentle, his gaze locked with Denethor's, compelling his father to finish the thought, to voice the feelings that had long been locked away. "Who if she had not been 'weak,' would not have died? Is that what you were going to say, Father?"

Denethor was gasping now, as if he still needed air, sobbing the words; "She left me. If she had been strong, it would not have happened. I loved her too much, she did not love me enough, or she would have lived, or so was my thought. She was gentle, but weak, or so I told myself. I would not love such weakness again, not even in my own son. I—I was contemptuous of her. I should not have been, but I was. I disdained it in Faramir even more. I believed that if they had just obeyed me, just done as I wished, been the wife and the son that I wished them to be, then all would have been well. But it was not so—n-not s-s-so…"

The former Steward, a broken man, lowered his head into his hands and wept like a child.

Boromir was instantly at his father's side, holding him, cradling the older man's head against his chest. "It is all right, Papa. All pain is over now. All will be well."

Denethor continued to weep for some minutes, with his firstborn soothing him. At last, the former Steward raised his head. He looked years younger, but his expression was still troubled.

"It is not well. What difference is there between me and Sauron, except in scale? My pride was as great as his. My anger was as bad as his. My selfishness, my scorn and contempt for others, my will to dominate, were all as bad as his. Thank Eru your brother had the wisdom to reject the Ring and bring it not to Minas Tirith! I would have become another Dark Lord, if he had!"

"But you understand that now, Papa," Boromir said, smiling, his face glowing with joy. "You know, and you have repented!"

Denethor gazed at his older son in wonder. "You…you called me 'Papa.'"

"That is because my Papa has returned," Boromir said, and kissed his father's brow. "We are reunited at last!" Gently, he took his father by the shoulders and turned the older Man toward the River. "Behold!"

The River, which had seemed so far away, as wide and as turbulent as the great Anduin, now appeared as gentle as a brook, with the waterfall and the land beyond it the most beautiful sights that Denethor had ever beheld.

All sights save one. A woman crossed the River, walking over the water as if it were a gentle path. The woman was more beautiful than any Denethor had ever beheld, even though he saw her not clearly. Such radiance shone from her, that he could not fix his eyes upon her. Surely this was one of the Valar! Without a second's hesitation, the once-proud Steward of Gondor fell to his knees, his head bowed and his gaze lowered, as he felt unworthy to look upon her.

"Forgive me, Great Lady," he begged. "I am a fool, a bully, a prideful Man. I mistreated my sweet wife, I was cruel to my younger son, I honored not my father. I expected too much from my elder son. I scorned all Men whom I deemed lesser. I was jealous of Thorongil, and spoke wrongly of him whenever I could. I had no gratitude for what I was given, but tried to bend all to my will. I was not fit to rule Gondor, and yet I tried to keep the rightful King from returning. I am a bitter, proud, weak, cruel Man. I do not deserve to enter the Kingdom of Illuvatar."

"None of us do," the lady replied, in a sweetly musical voice that was familiar, and long missed. "But He, in His great love for us, wants us to be with Him for always. And how could I be happy for ever more, dear husband, if you did not join me there?"

Denethor lifted his head. "Finduilas!" he gasped.

He had barely spoken his wife's name when she reached out a hand to him, drawing him to his feet. There was the most amazingly sweet sensation of warmth that Denethor had ever experienced…and then he was across the River, with Finduilas on one side of him and Boromir on the other.

They were together, and they were in the Presence of the One. And in His Presence, Denethor knew now how to love, knew now that he was loved, had always been loved, always would be loved, that there was only understanding, belonging, and love, now and forever more.


End file.
